


To the Music

by SeverinadeStrango



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Akechi Mitsuhide is His Own Warning, Biting, Blood, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverinadeStrango/pseuds/SeverinadeStrango
Summary: Mitsuhide does not know what he loves more - is it the warmth of his Lord's harsh hand against his cheek, or the sting of his torn flesh?  What a terribly heartbreaking predicament Lord Akechi finds himself in, every now and then.
Relationships: Akechi Mitsuhide/Oda Nobunaga
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	To the Music

He crawls back on hands and knees, begging and pleading for mercy – for his Lord to continue, not to relent. Please do not stand up and walk away from me now. Mitsuhide tucks his feet underneath him and puts his hands in his lap, fingers twisting and sliding, anxious like the rest of him. He didn’t want to wait and yet he knew he had to, it was a part of protocol and he was to follow it ever the obedient servant. Nobunaga-kou had not even looked at him yet oh he could have wept. Tell me I am here. Maybe he would crumble away into ashes if he decided, for whatever reason, not to.

“Cease your groveling, Mitsuhide.” It is beneath you. He wanted to scream, because no, it certainly was not beneath him – nothing was, there was nothing he would not do. Had his lord meant such a remark as an insult? It certainly had felt like one.

But if he did not want to remain in this hellish state of limbo any longer he knew he would have to act for himself. Passivity was not tolerated, he would have to bow to him, to relinquish any and all control he might have once had, and hope to the heavens that his Lord would see it fit to have mercy upon him tonight. That was the sacrifice demanded of him, and who was he to refuse? Mitsuhide lifted his head and crawled forwards again, like a panther, sleek and silent, until his folded legs were pressed up against Nobunaga’s iron-plated calves. He closed his eyes, already feeling as if he was falling, and ever so carefully turned his head to lay his cheek upon his lord’s lap, neck stretched and bare. 

More than once he had lain awake at night and thought, wistfully, of what it would feel like if his Lord chose to slit his throat. He would draw the blade slowly across the skin, and then press down deep – merciless and deliberate, just like everything else he did, and Mitsuhide would thrash and choke and gasp upon his own blood as he tasted it in torrents. Maybe his Lord would even soothe him throughout it all, like the sacrifice he was, and was destined to perpetually be. 

Reward me, my Lord, for embracing my altar?

“Quiet.”

Nobunaga drew a hand over Mitsuhide’s forehead, brushing away spare strands of hair and making him shiver in fearsome delight. He felt soothed, reassured – everything was going to be all right because he was here and nothing could happen to it here, his Lord would not have stood for any means of interruption, not when they were so engrossed in indulging one another like this (and oh, it was indeed mutual, even if Nobunaga would have gone to his grave before admitting such a thing). 

Mitsuhide knew the routine. He closed his eyes, and let himself fall against the base of the throne, focusing only on his own breathing, which was threatening to jump into overdrive at any given moment now. Slow slow slow, in and out, his Lord would reward him when he was good and ready and not a single second sooner, even _if_ his flesh burned for it and he ached all over with need. 

Show me who I belong to, he crooned, his throat tightening, please tell me I may remain.

And Nobunaga did, with lips and teeth along the column of his throat, devoid of all tenderness (he would have been insulted had it been any other way). He bit Mitsuhide sharply, just below his ear, and Mitsuhide had to catch himself, having very nearly squirmed. That wouldn’t do. He pressed his lips determinedly together and resolved to receive his reward gracefully, and with humility, even if his soul screamed for him to drink it up greedily. Small bites, and then larger – he would not warn Mitsuhide when-if-oh-please he was going to break skin, because knowing was a privilege that he had not yet earned. It was one that he hoped he would never earn, for what would be the thrill of the hunt then? He shuddered to think of such a dull, dreary lack of anticipation.

Such was something only his Lord could provide him. It was why he came back. It was why he stayed.

“Hmm-“

“Shut up.” 

There was no warning, just teeth and then a sharp flash of pain and the warmth of his blood, running down his neck, collecting in rivulets about his clavicle and maybe even staining the fabric of his clothing, if he was lucky. Mitsuhide had dreamed time and time again of his Lord consuming the very blood from his veins like this. He did not need it, he did not need that worldly fulfillment. Knowing that he had proved his use - that would be enough.


End file.
